


Crux

by illegible



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Shiptease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: The Fourteenth returns from his travels. Lahabrea is there to receive him.
Relationships: Lahabrea/Azem
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Late to the party but I am going to try and throw a few entries at the FFXIV-Writes 2020 challenge!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed lately, I've read everything and plan to hopefully reply soon! The feedback has been truly encouraging. Wishing you happy reading! <3

Azem returns at the close of summer, before leaves have begun to turn in Amaurot. The flowers are long since fallen. Light flits gold across panes of glass. Every breath comes drenched by the rolling sea.

People flock to his side, as they are wont to do. There is music and there is celebration and (as has become customary) the Convocation welcomes him home.

***

Polyleritae Amphitheater finds new energy upon receiving its wayward Fourteenth. What hushed energy would ordinarily take audience members has been replaced with a buzz of conversation. Neighbor grins to neighbor in speculation. Which of the outlandish rumors clinging to Azem’s heels are true, they wonder? Cacti dancing across desert sands, nomads transcending death time and again, the star birthing itself anew in blooms of fire and stone. They laugh in delight at the impossibility (is it really?) of it all.

Their eyes are bright with anticipation as he takes his place across from the Speaker.

***

Lahabrea, now most experienced member of the Convocation, opens his segment with characteristic fire. Passionate yet directed, unrelenting yet ordered in his fashion. He measures his words with care, crafting images and matrices that curl radiant across the platform. His breath comes hidden, each pause heightening drama between claims. One might almost forget the necessity of it.

Sharp gestures. A hand sweeping through the air, halting just as fast. No hesitation, no misunderstanding. Voice searing concepts to the minds of his audience, he asserts inconstancy and change and inevitable motion.

Azem is of a different breed, though a performer in his own right. Brash, loud, playing to the amusement of his people. He drums fingers at the podium, illuminated by lanterns as evening falls. Black mask obscured by the dim but his teeth are no less brilliant beneath. Rocking backward, flourishing shamelessly. Mischief without malice. There is disorder, perhaps, in his presentation. Even so this lack of structure does not diminish what shock sweeps the room as revelation takes hold. As a flood of raw inspiration his concepts crash forth like lifeblood. Confidence guides him over practicality and none can deny the thrill that drives him to and fro. 

Then there are occasions when, chuckling, he holds one hand up to plead “a moment”. To gather himself. Such incidents only endear him further, and beneath the twin fangs of his office Lahabrea can’t help but smile.

***

Celebrant approaches Shepherd. Clasps his hand.

Here, before the assembly, Azem pulls his rival into an embrace.

“We really ought catch up sometime,” he says, as if ignorant to the reverence he’s defied.

Lahabrea can only laugh, and nod, and marvel.

Perhaps his heart hammers behind his ribs, but such puzzles can be unraveled later.

***

Drink and a traveler’s dinner, what remains of his parting gifts from Achora. Lahabrea finds the fare oddly seasoned but not unpleasant—layered in mint, rose, and saffron.

Azem has yet to unpack, has yet to settle into his apartment proper. Concept crystals crowd the counter space, with perhaps twenty of the total collection already activated. The result is a pile which includes everything from coeurl skins to rugs to innumerable maps and automatons. An occasional sculpture or incense candle juts out, and while the mess has been organized enough to walk through Lahabrea finds himself dwarfed by the horde.

“I’ll have it cleared in no time,” Azem had laughed upon entry, “but I do apologize if this is overwhelming!”

“Not at all,” lied Lahabrea with a smile. After brief consideration he’d added, “Children often dream of finding such misplaced treasures. I should count myself fortunate.”

The taller man inclined his head, and not even a mask could disguise what mischief took him.

“Ah,” Azem said with a grin, “you should indeed, my dear Speaker. But do you?”

Lahabrea only chuckled, and turned away, and busied himself in examining an unattended globe.

Lamps cast the room aglow, revealing walls accented in brass. Neutral hues. The Shepherd’s floors are matte rather than glossed, giving the impression of more use than is true. His furniture proves eclectic, with chairs bound in the hides of beasts even as delicately carved cabinets display swords. Amaurot gleams like so many stars through his window, and the night beyond proves gentle.

Presently Lahabrea finds himself flush, and clumsy, and entirely full of foreign wine.

“But that’s the… the _crux_ of the argument, Azem,” says the Speaker, leaning in. “You put too much faith in what the soul can endure to stay it… it… itself. Stay itself.”

“Nonsense,” replies his host, lips quirking at the corners. “You’ve grown cynical.”

Lahabrea shakes his head, spills over his own hand as he is forced to fumble at the table’s edge to steady himself. “No,” he manages. “Not I. I’m… I’m Amaurot’s expert in souls. The living ones. You know my studies.”

Heat, rolling and intense, finds his cheeks. His throat. His chest.

“Of course,” says Azem, blotting at him delicately with a napkin. Humor lines his voice, and Lahabrea finds himself wondering if it creases his eyes as well before dismissing the thought as inappropriate. “Even still.”

A huff. A gaze averted as if that might preserve dignity.

“…Memory fades, but even temper can warp given strain. We aren’t… aren’t immune to such damage. Deformity in a thousand cuts, a thousand moments and choices.”

“A thousand seems too few,” murmurs Azem. Pausing (the cloth muffles any warmth that might have accompanied his touch, but even that pressure proves confounding) he adds, “You’ve underestimated the Underworld for purification. Hades’d never let you hear the end of it.”

“ _Emet-Selch_ would never face me in such a debate,” answers Lahabrea, more contrary than intended. “Too much effort” A beat. He adds, “In… in fact. Why isn’t he here? Why me and not him? You don’t owe more than’s been given.”

Azem’s expression softens. He doesn’t pull away. “When I think of home,” he says simply, “I think of you. You’ve now held your position longer than any other member of the Convocation. It always brings me comfort to know you’ll be here at my return… I’m grateful. So I thought I’d show you.”

For several moments, the Speaker is still. Silent. Feels himself burning beneath his mask.

Some part of him seems to shrink beneath the admission. Or perhaps it was always small. He finds himself realizing in a blurred, sluggish way that he can’t recall the last person to dare addressing him in such a manner.

“You’ve known Emet-Selch before me,” he says thickly. “Hythlodaeus I’m told met you at the gates.”

Azem’s laugh is too-loud but not unpleasant. Not unkind. He leans back, and only now is Lahabrea left bereft of his touch. “That’s true,” he concedes, “they’re each pieces of this place in their own right. And I do love them for it. But! I’ll accept no quota in who may join my friends. How should I fill my office if I did?”

Lahabrea drinks deeply, brings his glass to rest somewhat harder than necessary on the table.

“I will confess,” he says at length, barely breathless, “Amaurot can sometimes seem lacking in your absence. To my… to my mind, at least. It’s good to have you home.”

The Shepherd’s smile grows, leaving his guest mesmerized and still as he lays a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s good to be back,” he agrees, “though you may regret your words ere long. Unlike Emet-Selch I’m not wont to skip a debate when there is opportunity. Do not think I’ll spare you any headaches.”

And Lahabrea mirrors the expression, and exhales, and says, “I’d see you try.”

***

A thousand, thousand years.

A home destroyed.

Soul torn by decisions of his own making, Lahabrea no longer recognizes himself.

Perhaps, watching adventurers scurry back and forth across the streets of Ul’dah, he thinks he stands victorious after all.

Would that it were otherwise.


End file.
